


Angels Fear to Tread

by EA_Lakambini



Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale can't talk about feelings, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Good Omens Celebration 2020, Guilt, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-05-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:53:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EA_Lakambini/pseuds/EA_Lakambini
Summary: The dark leather was cracked along the worn creases, and it was covered by a thin layer of dust. Aziraphale turned it over, and felt a jolt of holiness suddenly flash through his fingers.(Aziraphale finds one of Crowley’s belongings from the 1940s.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725724
Comments: 10
Kudos: 60
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	Angels Fear to Tread

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be a moderately angsty one, because that seems to be my thing these days.  
> Slight trigger warning of blood (but it's just in reference; it's not actually in the action of the story).
> 
> Prompt: unexpected.

It was one of those rare times when Aziraphale was visiting at Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale had brought a new plant for Crowley’s indoor collection – “I figured you’d probably have one of these already; it’s called a _snake plant_ , after all, but this one is just quite a beauty, don’t you think?” – and the demon had let him in, with an invitation to some decent whiskey. Well, really, never let it be said that Aziraphale turned down good-quality libations.

Aziraphale carefully hung up his overcoat in the hall closet, wrinkling his nose slightly at the dust threatening to settle on the fabric. He guessed that Crowley probably forgot he even had a hall closet, considering how infrequently the demon stayed in his flat; he had always treated it more as a transitory space, even more so after the Apocalypse that wasn’t. Honestly, the hall closet looked more like an anything-goes storage space – it had, in addition to the two or three coats in the inevitable shades of black, a haphazard pile of barely-closed cardboard boxes, a broken umbrella, and a metal rack carrying a jumble of shoes.

Aziraphale tutted quietly to himself at the mess, looking over the shoes on the rack – a pair of Wellingtons streaked with mud, the platform boots that had been _everywhere_ in the 70s, Doc Martens with now-rusty studs, and _good Lord,_ Crowley actually owned _heelies_?

Aziraphale made to close the door of the closet when another shoe near the bottom of the rack caught his eye. Black leather Oxfords, simple in build but formal in style. This particular pair he recognized all too clearly; how could he forget how distinctive they had looked on the demon, hopping up and down a church aisle?

The dark leather of the upper was cracked along the worn creases, and it was covered by a thin layer of dust, possibly still the same dust from the rubble of the church. Aziraphale picked one shoe up, turned it over, and felt a jolt of holiness suddenly flash through his fingers.

To his shock, the sole of the shoe was charred, almost completely burned through. Aziraphale felt the whispers of divine power still remaining on the burnt edges, still flickering even after eighty years. He looked closer, and felt slightly sick when he noticed distinctive dark stains on the inner fabric of the shoe, stains that were clearly of dried blood. A not-insignificant amount, at that.

A wave of nausea hit him, along with a rush of thoughts and fears and feelings, roiling over him in a sickening wave. _How much pain was he in, for him to have bled_ this _much? He can’t miracle away this kind of pain, I know. But he stayed, still stood there burning, and he even saved my books. Spared even more miracles for that instead of for himself. And then he drove me back to the bookshop. All while he was suffering… this. He had to suffer holiness. Had to suffer_ me _. I did this to him. Oh, Lord._

Aziraphale dropped the shoe back on the rack as though _he_ was the one burned. He gingerly wrung his hands clean of the dust and flaking leather, felt shame course through him as he inspected his stupidly soft, too-manicured hands, realizing now what it had cost the demon to keep one silly angel’s corporation alive. He quickly shut the closet door behind him and hurried to the kitchen, where Crowley was waiting. His footsteps sounded far too loud in the corridor of the flat, and he felt nothing but guilt in every pain-free stride he made.

“Angel, what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Crowley said, raising an eyebrow as he set down the tumbler of whiskey on the counter. Aziraphale quickly lowered his eyes, still unable to fully meet the demon’s gaze. He reached out for the tumbler and poured himself a finger of the whiskey, then poured another for good measure. Quickly knocked back the alcohol, poured out more, the whole time aware of Crowley’s eyes on him. Oh, he was so _weak_ , some angel he was; he couldn’t even talk about this without alcohol to make him feel some semblance of bravery.

“I didn’t realize you were in so much pain that night,” Aziraphale finally whispered, cold fingers wrapping around his glass. “I mean, that is, I didn’t expect you’d really know how much consecrated ground could burn you, but you shouldn’t have gone in after you first felt that holy power burning your feet. I didn’t – “ He was rambling now, and he took a steadying breath when he saw Crowley suddenly go still next to him.

_I didn’t expect that you would let yourself get hurt. Not that much. Certainly not for me._

“What are you talking about, Aziraphale?” Crowley asked slowly. Aziraphale fidgeted slightly in his seat.

“I found, in the hall closet – when I was hanging up my coat, you know – the shoes you’d worn back when you went into the church after me and those Nazis,” Aziraphale admitted, finally looking up at Crowley. The demon had removed his sunglasses, and his serpentine eyes looked at him intently, as though probing his thoughts. “I saw, the soles were burned through, and… oh, your feet bled that night, didn’t they? I didn’t know, I didn’t mean for you to get hurt so badly,” Aziraphale stuttered, before biting his lip, uncertain on how to continue. He couldn’t put words to this sinking feeling within him, the guilt filling his body for something that had happened long before but whose impact he only felt the full force of, now.

“I know you didn’t. Doesn’t matter, angel. My choice, yeah? That was decades ago, and I’m fine now, really. Still walking, see? Just forgot to toss those old shoes out, y’know, was busy preparing for the next big mess involving the bloody V-2 missile and all,” Crowley said, filling in the silence, keeping the mood light. The demon always made it easy for him.

“I don’t regret it, Aziraphale,” Crowley continued, his voice low and steady. “Should I not have come to you?” Gold eyes met sapphire blue over the rims of whiskey glasses, and something heavy and unseen burned – more than alcohol, more than guilt, more than holy water or hellfire – between them.

“Crowley, I – “

Aziraphale couldn’t speak; all he could do was just _look_ at Crowley. There were the high cheekbones and fiery hair and golden slitted eyes – all fierce lines and sharp edges, like something that could cut if held too close – but then there too was the unexpected softness of the thin parted lips and the gentle curve of neck. Something that seemed to ask to be held, to come closer.

There were no bombs, no guns, no threat of death or discorporation. Only silence and the weight of so many - _far too many -_ years.

These were far more dangerous places that they were entering.

And Aziraphale simply was not that brave – he wasn’t, not in 1941, not in a thousand moments since, not tonight.

He looked away. Left the moment and Crowley’s question behind, left the hope that he could possibly deserve even a fraction of what Crowley had gone through to come to him. He downed the remainder of the whiskey in his glass in one gulp, feeling the burn in his throat as the alcohol slipped down, searing away the words that he really wanted to say, but failing to quell the burning longing in his heart.

_I didn’t expect that I would fall in love with you. Not this much._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for dropping by!


End file.
